


To a Distant Stranger

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Brienne is not a groupie, Bronn has a cameo, F/M, Jaime plays the guitar, Romantic fluff and humour, just because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: “Okay,” he says. “How about we start again?” He grins, a bright flash of charisma. “My name’s Jaime. I’ve come in answer to your ad. You’re looking for a bartender?”“Yes, I am, but not –” She trails off. “Are you serious?Youwant to be a bartender. You’re Jaime L–”“Hill,” he interrupts her, smiling pleasantly. “Flowers. No – Snow.”**[Rock-star!Jaime, in disguise, goes in search of a blue-eyed stranger.]
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 90
Kudos: 268
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2020





	To a Distant Stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdwolfpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdwolfpup/gifts).



> (Um. So, I kind of wrote *two* fics for the exchange. I hope you don't mind?) 
> 
> The prompt for this one was Sam Smith's song "Make it to me". Such beautiful music probably deserved to inspire a deeper, more profound fic than this. I had grand plans of writing a soul-mate AU, but, well, that story crashed and burned. So please have ridiculous rock-star fluff instead. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, sdwolfpup! And thank you for introducing me to this song.

**PROLOGUE**

******

**Storm’s End**

******

When he draws back the curtains, the sky is grey with pre-dawn light, with just a hint of rose and gold in the east. Far below, the streets of the city are quiet.

Behind him, sprawled over the great bed, _she_ stirs, her endless legs and broad shoulders pale against the dark sheets. She frowns, her pale brows contracting, makes a noise of protest and rolls over, going back to sleep.

A thin wisp of melody trails through his mind, elusive.

He reaches for his guitar.

**

Brienne wakes to half-heard music, absent notes and chords weaving into unfinished melody.

“Hmmm,” she sighs, stretching, her body languid and sated.

“Good morning, Blue,” a low voice says.

She sits up, clutching the sheets to her chest, startled. _He_ is sprawled over the couch beneath the open window, wearing only his jeans from last night, acoustic guitar in his lap. Jaime Lannister. Golden rock god.

 _Oh,_ she thinks. _Oh, did I really…? Last night, after the concert?_

“That’s nice,” she manages to choke out. “What you were playing.”

He shrugs. “Just a little something.” He puts the guitar aside, prowls over to the bed, and sits down beside her.

“You look like an Amazon,” he says, his eyes dark and gleaming. “Are you sure you’re not a warrior maid of old?”

“I told you,” she lies, “I’m an accountant.”

“Mm-hmm.” He dips his head, trails a series of light kisses across her neck. “And your name is Bri- Brianna Storm. Waters. No – Rivers.”

Her hands go up to clutch at his golden curls and hold him tighter against her. He drags his stubbled cheek against her jaw, and she shivers. When he reaches her mouth, he kisses her, hungry and devouring, and she sighs and allows him to push her down to the bed.

They don’t talk much, after that.

**

She sneaks out while he’s sleeping.

It was nice – _very_ nice – while it lasted. But that’s how these things are supposed to end, right?

**

**King’s Landing**

**

“I don’t normally do this sort of thing,” she says, as they stumble into his hotel room. “I’m not –”

“Not what?” he breathes, as he presses her up against the door, hastily unbuttoning her prim white blouse and rucking up her pinstriped pencil skirt. “Not an accountant? I knew that. _Gods_ , you’re wearing stockings.”

“Not a – a woman who fucks rock stars,” she manages to choke out, as he slides down to his knees, looking up at her with bright, wicked green eyes. He strokes his warm, calloused hands up her silk-clad calves and thighs. She widens her stance automatically, and he lifts one of her legs up, over his shoulder.

“Oh? What do you call this, then?” he asks –

And puts his mouth on her.

**

“I really am here on business,” she says, much later. “I didn’t expect –”

Their eyes had met and held across the crowded hotel lobby. He’d _smiled_ at her, his teeth white and sharp. Excitement had curled deep within her as he’d prowled through the oblivious crowd, sleek and dangerous.

And now they’re lying curled up together on the bed, drowsy and sated. She’s stroking her hand over his warm, muscular back, humming under her breath. He really is quite extraordinarily beautiful.

“Important accountant business,” he murmurs lazily. “Please tell me you wear glasses.”

She only laughs. “I own a bar,” she says, with shy pride. “We have live music and open mike nights. I try to support local artists, when I can. I wanted to create a safe place for people to come and express themselves, without fear of ridicule.”

He props himself up on his elbow and looks down at her. “You own a hipster bar?”

She rears up and glowers at him. “It’s not a hipster bar! For one thing, there’s nothing ironic about it. If you’re going to laugh –”

“No!” he says, grinning widely. “No. It sounds – well.” He lies down, crosses his hands behind his head, his muscles flexing distractingly. “It just sounds like a nice place.”

**

This time she stays. They eat breakfast in bed, Brienne wearing one of Jaime’s shirts – though it strains across the shoulders – and Jaime kisses her goodbye before she leaves.

He gives her his number. “The next stop on the tour is Riverrun,” he says.

**

But she knows she’ll never call him.

**

**Riverrun**

**

“Jaime,” Tyrion says. “Brother. You are a rock star. Why are you out here on your own? You should be partying and drinking and having wild sex with young, beautiful women.” 

It’s late, and Jaime is curled up on the balcony of his penthouse suite, staring moodily at the lights of the city below, brooding. He’s plucking idle chords and notes on his guitar, singing under his breath.

From what Tyrion can hear, it’s a small, beautiful song. Deceptively simple melody, wistful lyrics. Stripped back, with no flourishes – 

“What’s that?” Tyrion asks. “It’s beautiful.”

Something – or someone – had happened to Jaime after the concert at Storm’s End. And then again at King’s Landing.

“A distant stranger, meant only for me,” Jaime muses, his fingers playing over the guitar without thought. “Out there, somewhere.” And then: “But – she didn’t come.”

**

The tour winds its way into the Westerlands, through the Reach and down into Dorne, and then over to Essos.

Jaime’s mysterious stranger never calls.

**

The day after the tour finally comes to an end, Jaime vanishes.

Two weeks later, Tyrion receives an invoice from a private investigator.

**

**1.**

**

She recognises him immediately.

He’s wearing some sort of ridiculous disguise: skinny jeans, ironic t-shirt and an oversized jacket, with a knitted beanie cap and black-rimmed glasses. He’s got _fingerless gloves_ on.

But there’s no disguising the line of his jaw, or that razor-sharp ironic smile.

She knows the feel of that golden stubble against her skin. Those wide palms and calloused fingers. That mouth.

“Hello, Blue,” he says.

“What are you doing here?” she blurts out, her eyes wide.

There’s a battered guitar case slung over his shoulder.

“You never called,” he replies simply.

She blinks at him. “What do you mean, I never called? Did you honestly expect me to follow you to Riverrun? I told you I’m not –”

It’s his turn to stare. “Okay,” he says, after a long moment. “How about we start again?” He grins, a bright flash of charisma. “My name’s Jaime. I’ve come in answer to your ad. You’re looking for a bartender?”

“Brienne,” she says in automatic response. “Yes, I am, but not –” She trails off. “Are you serious? _You_ want to be a bartender. You’re Jaime L–”

“Hill,” he interrupts her, smiling pleasantly. “Flowers. No – Snow.”

She glowers at him.

He only sighs. “Look. Are you going to give me an interview or not? I don’t see anyone else here.”

“Go on, then.” She crosses her arms. Have you ever tended bar before?”

“I’ve mixed drinks,” he says. “It can’t be that difficult, surely?”

She bites her tongue.

Jaime Lannister. Golden rock god. Somehow, incredibly, they’d crossed paths – _twice_ – and had fallen into bed – _twice_ – and now here he is, standing right before her. In her bar. Applying for a job.

There are so many ways this could lead to disaster. But –

She’s been advertising for a bartender for weeks, and so far no one else has answered. She really does need the help.

“Alright.” She sighs. “Fine. You’re hired.”

They shake hands on it. When she tries to let go, he trails his fingers across her palm, sending a deep shivering thrill through her.

“Oh, by the way,” he says. “Are you still looking for a tenant for the spare room above your bar?”

**

He moves in that very night, carrying one duffel bag and his guitar case.

**

**2.**

**

After a few lessons, he masters the basics of bartending. If he’s a bit slow at first, and if he gets a few drinks wrong, he can at least count change correctly, and she’s not afraid of catching him with his hands in the till.

The rest can be learned on the job, and the patrons forgive him anything once he turns the full force of his mega-watt smile on them.

No one seems to recognise him. Who would think to look for a rock star outside his natural milieu?

**

Wednesday night is open mike night.

There’s a warm, welcoming crowd, and a number of people take the stage: singers; story-tellers; aspiring poets; even Tormund with his huge double-bass and Free Folk drinking songs.

After the cheering and whistling following Tormund’s rollicking performance dies away, there’s a bit of a lull in the proceedings. Jaime takes a break, sitting beside her at the bar and curiously surveying the room.

“An eclectic crowd,” he says thoughtfully. “I liked that big ginger fellow.”

“Tormund is larger than life,” she agrees, smiling. “You should ask him to tell you the tale of his ancestor and the bear-wife.”

He looks at her with interest. “You really enjoy all this,” he says.

“Of course. I love the energy and the creativity of it. The crowd here is good-natured and encouraging, and a lot of people who are afraid to perform in public feel that this is a safe place to express themselves.”

He makes a thoughtful humming noise. “Do you ever sing?”

“Me? Gods no,” she lies, too-quickly. “I can play the guitar, a bit, but –” she shrugs. “No one wants to hear me sing.”

“I do,” he says.

**

Thursday night is folk music night.

“If I never hear _The Rains of Castamere_ again, I’ll die happy,” Jaime mutters under his breath, as the melancholy strains of the chorus drift over the crowd.

“Ssshhh,” Brienne hisses. The duo on the stage – a red-haired woman in black velvet and lace and a man with a violin – are performing an interesting reinterpretation of the ancient song. “It’s one of the classic examples of the late-mediaeval Westerosi folk ballads. I studied it at the conservatory.”

“It’s a damned bore.” Jaime leans against the bar, arms crossed. “I prefer _The Dornishman’s Wife_.”

Bronn, one of their regulars, snorts out a laugh.

The next performer sings _Jenny of Oldstones_ with such melancholy pathos that it brings a tear to Brienne’s eye.

**

On Friday and Saturday nights, local bands come in to showcase their music.

Jaime watches with interest, in between interruptions from patrons at the bar.

“You’ve got an eye for talent,” he says, as the current performers work the crowd well enough to have them whistling and cheering and dancing on Brienne’s tiny dance floor. “They’ve got potential.”

Brienne smiles shyly.

**

Soon enough, Jaime has been at the bar for two weeks, and then three, and then four. He gets to know the regulars, learns their drinks, and at least pretends to be interested in their lives.

He lives in the room across from hers, over the bar, and he’s a model tenant: he pays his rent on time, doesn’t smoke or make a ruckus or bring home strange women – not, of course, that she’s on the look-out for that.

Sometimes, during the mid-afternoon lulls when the bar is almost empty, he’ll sit on the stage and play his guitar, idle plucking and finger exercises, half-recognisable snatches of song.

“What should I play for you?” he asks one idle afternoon. “It’s been a while, but I remember what it’s like to sing for my supper.”

She rolls her eyes. “What about that song you were playing in Storm’s End?”

“Ah, that.” He looks uncomfortable. “It’s not ready yet.”

It’s a pity. She’s heard him playing variations on the melody, heard him singing under his breath and scribbling lyrics down on scrunched-up pieces of paper.

“ _Seasons of My Love_ ,” she says, prompted by some inner devil.

“What? Don’t tell me you like that cr–”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know it,” she grins, daring him. “It was number one for nearly four weeks on both sides of the Narrow Sea.”

It’s a sweet, sentimental pop ballad with not a sharp edge in sight, but she’d been thirteen when she first heard it, and for a moment she’d felt her girlish heart flutter.

“Fine.” He glowers at her. “But I’m not singing it. If you want to hear the lyrics, you’re going to have to sing it yourself.”

“I can’t sing,” she says automatically.

“Nonsense. I bet you’ve got a beautiful voice.”

She opens and closes her mouth, looks away, and then looks down.

“Come on, Blue,” Jaime coaxes her. “It’s just us here. I promise I won’t judge. You said it yourself: this bar is a safe place.” 

_If you laugh at me,_ she thinks, _all the safety of this place will be gone forever._

But he looks so earnest, so unlike his usual ironic self, that she gives in to temptation. “Oh very well,” she sighs. “You play and I’ll sing.”

Grinning widely, he plays the familiar introductory notes on his guitar – though he can’t resist adding a few musical flourishes of his own.

Looking around carefully to make sure no one else was listening, she sings in a low, sweet voice:

_I loved a maid as fair as summer  
_ _With sunlight in her hair_

_I loved a maid as red as autumn  
_ _With sunset in her hair_

_I loved a maid as white as winter  
_ _With moonglow in her hair_

When she’s finished, Jaime brings the music to a slow finish and stares at her, his eyes very solemn.

“That was beautiful,” he says, utterly sincere. “You’re beautiful.”

Her foolish, foolish heart flutters within her.

**

**3.**

**

And then one Friday night, the band she had booked falls through.

“Well, why don’t you take the stage?” Jaime asks lazily.

“I don’t sing,” she says.

He narrows his eyes. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

“Fine.” She crosses her arms. “How about this: I _won’t_ sing.”

They stare at each other, a silent battle of wills, until Bronn – watching impatiently from the bar – interrupts them. “Why don’t you get up and play yourself, Lannister? Maybe then you can stop arguing and get me a bloody drink.”

Their staring contest comes to an abrupt end. Jaime scowls at Bronn. “Snow,” he says, as he pours Bronn a shot of whiskey. “My name’s Snow.”

“Oh aye?” Bronn laughs insolently. “You’ve never been north of the Neck in your life.”

Jaime slams the shot glass down in front of Bronn. “I’ve played at the Sunset festival in the West, and Splendour in the Dothraki Grasslands. I’ve played the Long Night in the Land of Always Winter, and the great Fire Festival in the heart of Sothyros. I have most assuredly been north of the Neck.”

“Well, then, you won’t mind playing tonight,” Bronn says.

For a moment, Brienne hesitates. “The bands usually bring their own amps and equipment. We only have a microphone. Will that be enough to get the crowd on its feet?”

He slants her a look. “Please,” he scoffs.

 _There’s been a lot of talk about this song,_ he had once introduced _Kingslayer_ to a seething crowd in the great square beneath the walls of the Red Keep. _Perhaps a little too much talk. This is a fucking rebel song!!!_

The crowd had _roared_. Riot police had stormed the stage, trying to shut down the concert, and Jaime had been dragged off to an anonymous black van.

The rampaging crowd had stormed the Red Keep and thrown down the Mad King.

**

He starts slowly enough, low, bluesy tunes and laid-back covers while the bar is still filling up, while there’s a low murmur of conversation in the room as people eat and drink. He bows ironically at the scattered applause, stray clapping and whistles here and there; he’s not used to being ignored.

But as the after-work and dinner crowd leave, as the regulars who come in for the music start to filter in, he turns up the intensity.

He winks at Brienne, and he starts playing _his own_ songs _._ _In the Name of Love_. _A Cloak of White Snow_. _Hear me Roar._

When he starts to play _Poison_ , the crowd stamps their feet, whistles and cheers and chants the chorus with him. 

With just a guitar and a microphone, he holds them in the palm of his hand.

And then he plays the opening chords of _Kingslayer,_ and the crowd goes wild.

It’s a raging, defiant anthem with pounding drums, searing guitar and incendiary lyrics, and even stripped back Jaime fills it with all his youthful, passionate rage against injustice and tyranny. 

The whole bar is on their feet, screaming, and the cheering goes on and on, endless, as he bows and walks off.

When he comes back for his encore, he plays two more of his greatest hits before he leans into the microphone and says, “Here’s something to end the night with. It’s called _Make It To Me_.”

He looks straight at Brienne, and he plays the slow, elusive melody from the morning after at Storm’s End.

It’s haunting, beautiful and heart-felt.

It may as well be a public declaration of love.

**

**EPILOGUE – Storm’s End**

**

“Hello Storm’s End!!” Jaime calls out, laughing as the crowd roars with delight. He’s standing at the microphone, guitar on his hip, dressed in black jeans and a red shirt, his golden curls damp with sweat under the floodlights. Every eye in the crowd is fixed on him adoringly. “I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. Her name’s Brienne. She’s a bit shy, though, so please – give her a true Stormlands welcome!”

The crowd whistle and cheer, filled with expectation and excitement.

Brienne stands on the wings of the stage, horrified. “Jaime, what are you doing?” she hisses as he walks towards her, hand outstretched.

“Come on, Blue,” Jaime coaxes, his bright green eyes laughing and filled with excitement. “Listen to them. They’re out there, waiting for you – all you have to do is be yourself.”

She hesitates for a moment, but the crowd starts calling her name.

_Bri-enne! Bri-enne! Bri-enne!_

She takes Jaime’s hand, and steps out onto the stage, into the spotlight.

The band start up behind her, the familiar music filling her and lifting her up.

She looks at Jaime.

And then she sings.

**Author's Note:**

> "Jenny of Oldstones", "The Dornishman's Wife", "Seasons of My Love" and the song about the Rains are all from ASOIAF canon. 
> 
> Kingslayer was inspired by U2's "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" (which is, of course, *not* a rebel song). I couldn't resist borrowing "In the Name of Love" as well. And "Poison" is borrowed from Alice Cooper.


End file.
